


Good Intentions

by taranoire



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Abuse, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Religious Guilt, Slavery, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-08
Updated: 2014-10-08
Packaged: 2018-02-20 09:34:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2423858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taranoire/pseuds/taranoire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Did you ever think about killing yourself?"<br/>Once.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Intentions

**Author's Note:**

> *Some people think this "ships" Danarius/Fenris and I want to be very clear about something: this is NOT meant to portray a romantic relationship, at all.* 
> 
> Essentially, the basis for this fic is that I think Fenris was (more than likely) lying when he told Anders he never once contemplated suicide. I was also interested in writing about what I believe is a conflict of faith on his part, and delving more deeply into his psyche as a slave. During canon we get glimpses of who he was, but never the whole picture. 
> 
> If he seems out-of-character, it's intentional, to a certain degree. Abuse does weird things to your brain (hence why so many of his thought processes don't make sense). I drew from my own experiences, so I suppose you could say this was a somewhat personal, cathartic piece of writing.

He stumbles through the thick wooden door, rain and mud and blood dribbling down his skin, and collapses on the cold stone floor. Sobs wrack his body, so intense he cannot breathe properly, soft enough that he cannot hear himself over the thundering pound of the storm. 

He closes the door with a quick shove of his feet, and suddenly all is quiet but for his own noises.

He rips the hood from his head, and then lies there on the floor shaking in despair, fists curled against the stone. There is nothing about him that hasn’t been touched by sin: lyrium traces his skin like a demon’s caress, trauma and magic have bleached the color from his dripping hair, and even the blood in his mouth tastes of unnatural metal.

He cries until he is spent, until he is retching on the air. He makes noise. He feels. No one uses the slave entrance during the week. No one lingers in the chantry after hours. It is a holy place, but occupied mostly by ghosts and the damned. 

He is both.

His master is a devout follower of the Maker, in his own way. He attends services in this place--Minrathous' grandest and oldest cathedral, wherein most of the sermons are warnings to slaves attending by compulsion: “Do not think of defying your betters,” the Chantry fathers say. “Do not dream of running, because to do so is a sin in the eyes of the Maker. He has chosen this path for his elven children; they are inferior, and must be cleansed through labor and patient obedience.”

Sometimes his master brings him here. It is very old, from a time when the Imperium stretched far beyond its current borders, and decorated with images of saints, and gold, and lyrium. Paintings of men and their magic stretch across the ceiling. Elves are depicted as serpents, or wolves, or lascivious creatures of temptation. 

When Danarius wills it, Fenris is allowed to sit beside him in the high seating, like he is the man’s equal. It is a formality. Danarius keeps a short leash. 

Fenris does not often pay attention to the sermons but he does quite enjoy the stories concerning Andraste. He sometimes dreams of her face, and what it must have looked like. He envisions her as a very beautiful elven woman. It would be blasphemy to say this, so he keeps it to himself.

Still—the love of the Maker, and his elusive prophet, have always made Fenris feel safe. Master has never laid a hand on him in the chantry, has never said a negative word towards him. In fact Fenris has never seen anyone harm an elf within these thick, stone walls that smell of incense and earth.

Squeezing his eyes shut tight against the sudden burn of tears, he leans against the wall for support as he forces himself to his feet. He should pray for salvation and forgiveness before he commits to his intentions. Blinking back rain and more, he stumbles towards the altar, every step causing him pain. It rips through him like fire, a constant reminder of why he is here, of why he needs to go through with this.

A faint memory flickers, like a candle flame in the dark: the taste of wine, a whisper of a name, children laughing, beautiful voices rising in synchronization, a song he has heard in the foggiest corners of his mind many times but never known why. And just as he stops, eyes widening at the intensity of the memory, it disappears, and he clutches himself tightly for comfort.

He grits his teeth.

He ascends the altar steps, and then kneels before it, as if it is another master. He knows the motions of reverence, of obedience. 

But the Maker has never beaten him. The Maker has never held him down and taken him. The Maker has never forced him to kill. The Maker has never done anything but ignore his desperate prayers, and let him linger in the silent heat of dark nights alone.

(What am I?) 

He opens his clenched hand, and what he sees within his grasp makes his shoulders relax in submission to his fate. He stole the herbs from Danarius’ alchemy stores. It is a dried but potent mix of deathroot dipped in toxin extract. He has seen how it works. First, it causes crippling stomach cramps, and possible internal bleeding. After that, there will be sweating and hallucinations, and within minutes, it will stop his heart. But he does not fear pain.

He has had the urge to die before. Occasionally, he’s thought on how easy it would be. He could jump out of a window, or cut his own throat. He could antagonize Hadriana until she bled him to death. He could do many things, but none so fitting as this. Poisoning himself in plain sight, quietly and easily slipping away into the embrace of nothingness. 

He has never been fond of hiding. 

“Forgive me,” he says. “I do not know what else to do.”

The more he thinks about this, the less he will want to do it. Even now the temptation to slink back into the storm and beg Danarius for forgiveness is overpowering. So he takes an unsteady breath and raises his hand to his mouth.

A man's voice stills him. “What is your name, elf?”

He does not look towards them. Of course there would be monks about, at this time of night. Who else would sweep the floors and keep the candles lit? He clenches his hand, hiding the herbs, and looks towards the ground in shame. He says nothing.

Soft footsteps approach. He smells that same sweet incense, drawing closer. It comforts him, though he knows not why.

“Do not fear me,” the man says. He stands before him now. Fenris can see that his sunlight robes bear the symbols of Andraste. “No matter what you have done, you will not come to harm within these walls. Now I ask again: what is your name, and to whom to you belong, elf?”

He does not even ask if Fenris is liberati--if he is free. But of course, there are few elves that are. 

“My name is Fenris,” he says quietly, voice uncolored by tone. “I am Magister Danarius’ favored"

The monk nods. The magister is well-known, in this city. “Does he know you are here?”

“No.”

“Then he will soon enough.” He bends over so that they are nearly eye to eye, and extends his hand knowingly. “Give me what you have brought with you, Fenris.”

As if in a trance, he obeys without much thought. He watches the holy man examine the herbs, watches him rise, and watches him go over to the altar and burn the poison in the offering plate. The smoke is acrid, but will not harm living tissue. Fenris closes his eyes in quiet submission as the chantry brother clasps his hands in prayer. Fenris had his chance, and he has lost it.

He does not know how much time passes before the brother comes back to his side. He is no longer sure what to do with himself. He is exhausted beyond belief, as if all of the pain and torment of his life have caught up with him, leaving him unwilling to move or think or breathe.

He tilts Fenris' face up with his hand. The light is overwhelming. 

“Killing oneself,” says the brother, “is one of the most unforgivable sins in the eyes of the Maker. He would rather we bear our hardships in life than suffer eternity without him. There is _nothing_ in this world that can match the horror of being alone in death. Do you understand?”

He nods, though he is not sure he believes him. Fenris cannot personally imagine a fate worse than being alone forever. It could be true.

“The Maker has performed a miracle tonight, bringing you here to me,” he continues, letting Fenris go so that he can sit on the altar steps, slightly above him. Always above him, never with him; that is their way, lest he make the mistake of thinking he is an equal. “As an elf, you were born to serve the Maker by serving man. And yet, even though special care must be taken to bring your people to His light, you as precious to Him as any other. Your spirit is divine, Fenris; your body is temporary, and it is a gift the Maker would not want to see squandered.”

He bristles at the suggestion that he is lesser merely by existing, that his form and his function are somehow enough to condemn him to the whims of another. But it is the first time anyone—man or elf—has said he can be saved, or that he is precious to this mysterious Maker that has never shown him much notice.

In Danarius’ opinion the sermons are far less rosy. Elves are twisted forms of man, the priests say, deceptively delicate and existing only to tempt the righteous from the Maker’s path with their bodies or their false ancient gods. They must be...cleansed. 

“Why did you come here, Fenris?” the brother asks compassionately. “Why have you forsaken your earthly master?”

What can he say? It’s a mess, a cluster of nightmarish images and emotions that he cannot coherently organize or talk about. It was not just today. It was not just this week. It feels as if his soul has been corrupted, has gone wrong somehow, and that Danarius has made it that way. With every forced kill, with every heart he feels in his fist, with every life that spills across his arm in bright red waves, he feels himself decaying; every time Danarius touches him, every time he is trapped beneath him, is forced to move and purr and pretend to want, he feels something _dying._

There is a constant dichotomy of affection, and abhorrence. He is always on edge, never knowing if he is safe, never knowing if others are safe around him. At any moment he could be given some new, dark purpose. Kill the child and spill his blood on the altar, my little wolf; pour the wine, my little wolf; lie back and try to enjoy this, little wolf. No one will ever love you as I do. No one else can bear to look at you, you frightening, beautiful creature.

“My earthly master can be cruel,” he says vaguely.

“Does he hurt you, Fenris?”

He looks away, his body heating with nauseating shame. He is disgusted with himself, with the lyrium in his flesh, with the drying blood between his legs. He is sick with the thought that he is weak. He cannot _do_ this. He wishes that he could simply disappear from existence, could float away like wind or wisps. He does not even deserve to be in this place, after what he has done.

He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know what to _do._ Someone, please tell me what to do, he thinks.

The double doors of the chantry are thrown open, and the quiet sanctuary is overwhelmed by the gale of the storm. There are soldiers, all hooded, and Danarius is among them, his gold leaf staff glimmering in the dim light. The expression on his face—it is so very difficult to discern, but Fenris cannot help but shrink in his midst. Magic is a taint that infects the air. He can feel it on his skin like hot ashes. 

The brother rises to his feet to meet the ensemble of armed men with raised shoulders and a cold, calm veneer. “You are seeking the slave, I take it?”

Fenris sits on his knees, shaking, terrified of what will happen to him now that Danarius has discovered him here, so far from the estate and in the company of a chantry servant. He is everything the man has said he is; ungrateful, stupid, weak, disloyal. He fears Danarius will kill him, here in the chantry, a blood sacrifice, and suddenly has no desire to die.

Danarius marches down the chantry aisle, then stops, looking down at Fenris distastefully. The man’s fingers twitch, a sign of violence so far denied. His robes, his skin are all damp from the rain. He has been searching for him himself. What does that mean?

“I apologize for this…intrusion, Revered Father,” Danarius says in that sickly sweet tone he reserves for those he is trying to manipulate. But Fenris’ ears twitch—a Revered Father holds power, even in Minrathous. Even among blood mages. “He will be severely punished.”

“That will not be necessary,” the father  says, unfazed. “Your burden has already suffered enough for one night. He came here, lost and afraid, seeking to take his own life. The Maker, in His divine mercy, led me to him.”

Danarius inhales sharply, and Fenris briefly meets his gaze. The man looks angry, confused—and beneath that, frightened. He is smaller, and paler, here in the candlelit dust of the chantry. “He intended to kill himself?” he asks in a hush. “Why?”

“Why indeed?” the father wonders aloud. “Fenris, you may stand.”

His eyes wander from the holy father to his master, and back again, his instincts telling him he will be harmed if he defers to his will instead of Danarius’. Slowly, he decides that he should obey, and gets to his feet. He discovers it is impossible to look at either of them. His own body prevents him from doing anything but standing, and tuning out of the world, letting it echo warm around him, beyond his control.

The holy father radiates things he has never touched: divinity, mercy.

“Do you know what the Maker says about slaves, magister?” the father asks his master.

“No, your grace.”

 “He says that slaves are our most precious resource. They are tools, yes – and a responsibility not to be taken lightly. As their masters we are their keepers, their parents, their sacred ambassadors of Andraste’s will. Have you treated Fenris with the love our Maker would have you show him? Have you made yourself an example of His word?”

Danarius lowers his head in shame, and shakes it. “No, your grace.”

“You do not need to confess it to me,” the father chides him, “but were I you, I would pray to the Maker, and reflect on what it is you have done to make this elf want to die rather than do his duty by serving you.”

He looks at Fenris, and nods towards Danarius. “Go to him. And my dear magister, I advise you do not punish him for his actions. Should any harm come to him, the Maker will know. If you protect him he will not forsake you again.”

“I understand,” Danarius says, swallowing tightly. He reaches for him, and Fenris flinches, expecting pain, expecting—not this. It is a gentle touch, an innocent press of hand against his face, and he unconsciously leans into it. “Come, love. The carriage is waiting to take us home.”

Fenris trembles slightly, feeling like this is a ruse, a way to keep him compliant before the man beats him or murders him outside the safety of the chantry. He clutches his cloak tight around himself and follows the magister from a respectful distance. He does not look back at the holy mother, afraid of what he will see.

The blows, the biting words, the pulse of blood sacrifice—these things never come. His master allows him to sit beside him, in the carriage, pulls him close against his side and strokes his damp hair. The man looks distracted, disturbed even, and in the dark Fenris can see that his eyes shimmer as if with tears.

He nearly falls asleep there, lulled by the tenderness and the sound of the road, but then they are back at the estate. Danarius leaves the carriage first, assisted by his human manservant.

“Did you find the elf?” his manservant asks, rather coldly. 

“Fortunately, he did not go far in his distress,” Danarius says. “He was in the chantry, under the care of the Revered Father, as it would seem.”

“Should I have him taken to be lashed, dominus?”

“No,” Danarius says softly. “In fact I would like you to have a bath drawn for him in my quarters, mixed with elfroot and healing powder. And prepare something soft for him to wear. I will also need a doctor--an elven one, if you can.”

“Dominus...?”

“Do as I command, or I will have the knife-ears lash _you._ ”

Fenris—does not understand what is happening, or why, but he will not question it. The moment he suggests that anything is out of the ordinary the spell will be broken, the kindness will dissipate, and Danarius will hurt him. No, he mustn’t say a word; he must make himself small, and quiet, and try not to think about the small clutch of herbs that are ashes now.

The manservant takes his hand, a little too tightly, and helps him step out of the carriage where Danarius awaits him.

“I saw that you were limping, pet,” Danarius says, somewhat coolly. “You may hold onto me. We are going to bed, and you will rest. You have had quite the ordeal, you poor, simple thing.”

Fenris warily accepts the offer, but is careful not to actually put any weight on the man. He can feel the stares of everyone on him—elves and men, free and unfree—and lowers his head, skin burning, but deep down quite apathetic towards them. He no longer cares. He cannot care.

Danarius leads him to the master bedroom. It has already been cleansed of what transpired mere hours ago. Fenris recalls blood on the sheets, and a collar of steel. But it is all gone now. Not even stains linger.

Fenris does not realize he is staring until Danarius says his name, and startles him.

“Let’s get you out of these clothes,” the man says softly in his ear.

His brain shuts down, and his body obeys. He peels off the wet cloak, sodden and heavy. He pulls his shirt over his head, and then the undershirt. Difficulty encroaches him when he begins to work at his trousers; they are made of soft, dark leather, and drying blood and sweat have glued them to his skin. But soon it is done, and he is naked and shivering, and he moves instinctively towards the bed.

Danarius grabs his wrist.

“You are in no state for such a thing. I will not touch you like this.”

Dimly, Fenris is aware of a small voice in the back of his mind asking why not. It seems inconsistent for Danarius to say such a thing. Fenris’ lack of consent, or his injuries, or his mental state, have never stopped Danarius from raping him before. (And Fenris has tried everything; he has tried violence, he has tried begging, he has tried complete passiveness.) So what has changed? What is so different about tonight?

The magister leads him to the bath. It is warm and wet with steam. There are elven slaves here, but they do not look at him, so he cannot tell what they are thinking. He lets himself be touched and moved and sinks down (with a hiss of pain) into the water, which is soft against his skin and smells of something medicinal and sweet. He slowly watches the water turn pink and then muddy with blood, and it only gets darker the more the elves scrub him down.

He cannot remember how it got there.

He cannot remember anything.

“How did you intend to kill yourself, Fenris?” Danarius asks. He has been watching him. The elven slaves exchange—looks. Fenris actually feels their pity, their care, in the increased amount of tenderness they show him. Some elves are jealous that he is the master’s favored slave. They glare at him, call him things, when they think he is not listening. Others, such as these, know it is not so enviable: that his place at the master’s side has a steep and bloody price. They would never trade places with him, were it even possible.

“I was going to chew deathroot, master,” he says quietly. “The Revered Father burned it.”

“I see,” Danarius says. “But you did not ingest any?”

“No, dominus.”

“You are not lying to me?”

“No, dominus.”

Danarius nods, believing him.

He is dressed in soft cotton that lets his skin breathe, and then told to lie down on the bed. An elven mage arrives shortly after, and examines him while Danarius keeps a close watch. The whole thing is—shameful, humiliating, and he keeps his eyes closed and his body tense, but he listens carefully to what the healer has to say, nonetheless.

“There is evidence he has been bleeding internally,” the elf says to the magister without undue specificity. “He has been concussed, and may have problems with balance and organizing his thoughts for the next few days. There is also—severe tearing, and fractures that will need attending to.”

“Can you not fix it?” Danarius asks impatiently. “I know little of healing magic, elf.”

“It is too late for that,” the healer says. “The wounds have set in, and he is exhausted, besides. Using magic on him, especially with his…lyrium condition, could stop his heart. I can give him a potion to dull the pain, but it will be a week before he fully recovers. You are lucky elves heal quickly.”

“I see,” Danarius says. He moves closer to the bed. “What do you recommend, then, to expedite the process?”

“It cannot be expedited,” the freed elf says, rising to his feet. He makes a show of pressing the back of his hand against Fenris’ head, as if to check for fever, but Fenris sees his expression. It’s gentleness. It’s pity. “He should have light duties, if any, and stay off his feet as much as possible. If you _must_ use him, sir, do it with care; he is an elf, not a Qunari, and elves are particularly susceptible to infection and broken bones.”

The healer produces a small, blood-red potion that will allegedly stave off pain, and leaves it on the bedside table before Danarius dismisses him.

They are alone. Fenris cannot help but be afraid, even now. He shudders, though the room is comfortably warm, and draws his legs up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them almost protectively. He stays quiet, and submissive, even when Danarius approaches him with a look of longing in his eyes; even when the man sits on the bed, beside him, and tries to reach for him.

He shies away, without even meaning to, and the magister stops. He just— _stops_. And lays his hands in his lap. That has never happened before. 

“I am a terrible man, Fenris,” he says in a voice that is half-broken.

Fenris blinks at him. He is not sure what to say to that. Some part of him is angry that the man would even consider feeling sorry for himself, of all people, but he swallows that emotion because it is ultimately useless to him, like most metaphysical sensations. 

“Did you know that you are the only thing I have ever loved?” Danarius asks calmly. Fenris had not been wrong before: there are tears in his eyes, thick in his lashes. They magnify the grey depths and make them seem even more sinister. Danarius is more human than monster, right now, and that frightens him. What human could show such horrific cruelty? “My little Fenris. I have poured everything I have into you, pet. My pride, my hate, my desire. You were created by my design. And because of all of this, you are everything to me.”

He does not know what to think. He wishes someone would tell him what to think. Or do. Or believe. And then, lo; a miracle. Guidance in the fog. This is what he was made for. This is why lyrium carves a twisted path through his flesh and blood. This is why he suffers for an absent god. 

“Do you love me, Fenris? Do you love your master?”

He is overcome by a sudden flux of tears. But it cannot be helped. He has no one else but this man. He has nothing else but what Danarius has given him, nothing but the day-to-day thrum of violence, the knife edge of fate. If he obeys, he will have purpose. If he stays close, he can be saved. “Of course I do, master.”

“Do you believe I’m a terrible man?”

Fenris shakes slightly as he moves closer towards him. “No, master.”

“I want to hear you say the words. I want to hear you. Please.”

He presses a soft kiss against the man’s head, lingering close. He clings to him as if he is a firm rock in the midst of a roiling ocean. “I love you, master. I remain at your side." 


End file.
